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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25166668">On the Path of Dreams</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/lnhammer/pseuds/lnhammer'>lnhammer</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Heian Jidai | Heian Period RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Dreams, F/M, Love Poems, Poetry, Wordplay, timeslip</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 05:29:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,242</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25166668</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/lnhammer/pseuds/lnhammer</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In her dream, Komachi sees him again. He is dressed informally in an autumn-colored hunting outfit, talking in a palace courtyard with some young men about his age -- all just starting up the ladder of court offices. But she barely notices the others, not while she strains to see <i>him</i>, to hear his words amid the chatter. He is brightness incarnate, a star among humans, a blazing fire in mortal guise -- half-hidden a crowd of shadows. </p><p>    The men laugh together, himself included, and she nearly scorches.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ki no Tsurayuki &amp; Ki no Tomonori, Ki no Tsurayuki/Ono no Komachi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>On the Path of Dreams</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In her dream, Komachi sees him again. He is dressed informally in an autumn-colored hunting outfit, talking in a palace courtyard with some young men about his age -- all just starting up the ladder of court offices. But she barely notices the others, not while she strains to see <i>him</i>, to hear his words amid the chatter. He is brightness incarnate, a star among humans, a blazing fire in mortal guise -- half-hidden a crowd of shadows. </p><p>The men laugh together, himself included, and she nearly scorches.</p><p>No one notices her. Even seated on an open veranda, she is as separate as if behind a modesty screen. </p><p>Maybe they are not, in fact, heading out. Maybe they are dressed informally for some palace event -- but no, an older man, a minister with many followers, comes into the courtyard to exchange farewells with one who seems to be his son. Even a beautiful young man such as him must attend upon the children of the powerful -- such is the way of the world. </p><p>The men turn to leave, crossing the courtyard before her like clouds and the moon across the night. Servants attend them with bows and horses, with falcons and hounds. None look at her, and she flushes at being scorned, but whether it's for sitting brazenly out in the open or for her insignificance, she cannot tell. </p><p>Beside her, the young princess practices writing, ignoring the hunting party for her uncertain scrawls. Instead of correcting the characters, as she is supposed to, Komachi takes paper and a free brush, and without hesitation writes a poem. And as if words could take wing, when she is done, the paper flies through the air to his hand. He takes it, and reads, and -- CRACK! </p><p>-- a servant's step on that board that creaks. </p><p>Komachi's dream dissolved, leaving thoughts as tangled as her hair. She blinked but lay still, thinking of him, and his world, and the almost cool of the late-summer morning. And her poem -- that she needed to remember. </p><p>The closest paper at hand was her pillow-book, a sometimes-diary kept in the wooden box she slept on. She fumbled for it, for ink, and in the dawn light filtered through shutters she tried to capture those fleeting words: <i>Though I constantly travel on the path of dreams …</i></p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>#</p>
</div>Tsurayuki had over an hour before his duties at court, and decided to spend the time on the east garden veranda, practicing calligraphy alone. The day was still early enough to call morning, and even in late summer the weather was pleasant enough to enjoy. All in all, too nice to stay indoors, especially with the light wind carrying scents that hinted autumn would come soon.<p>His heart, though, was as uncertain as the breeze: no style seemed to match his mood, and no words fit his feelings. Worse, a gust caught his papers, scattering them across the floor and into the garden -- like leaves fallen a few months too early. His manservant chased them down while Tsurayuki weighted the remainder with a stone, pondering the image of words as autumn leaves. If he could work out a witty enough pun...</p><p>As he sorted though his papers, he found a poem he didn't recognize:</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>     Though I constantly<br/>
travel on the path of dreams,<br/>
    feet never resting,<br/>
all these meetings are nothing<br/>
to a glimpse in the waking world. </p>
</blockquote>The handwriting was that of a slightly old-fashioned lady, like one of his father's aunts, yet she was clearly a young woman deeply moved by passion. The extra syllable in the final line, for emphasis, was a good touch. Well-wrought, for a woman's poem, more complex than the usual simple declaration as it shifted the balance between dream and reality. Surely he would remember having read so distinctive a treatment of the topic.<p>But did she want to meet him, or was this intended for another, blown astray by the wind? </p><p>His manservant insisted he'd never seen the page before -- firmly, not in the way that let one know he'd been paid to pass it on. When summoned, no one else knew anything of it. No outside servants had entered the house -- not even a messenger for his mother or his father's other wife. Well, someone had brought his sister a morning-after missive from her new husband, but Nakahide counted as family now, and besides, he was hardly capable of writing this. </p><p>In short, all evidence pointed it to being a stray. A pretty puzzle indeed. Tsurayuki smiled to himself. </p><p>So as an exercise, how would he answer if it had arrived by normal means? He settled himself, lost in thought. Then in a loose hand, one matching the writer's passion, he wrote:</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>     Isn't it always<br/>
like that in this world of ours:<br/>
    I long for someone<br/>
I cannot see any more<br/>
than I can the blowing wind. </p>
</blockquote>Or he tried to -- his first attempt, the writing was too stiff, and the pause while he considered how to word the second half too noticeable. His second copy came out better. As the ink dried, he set it aside, under another stone, while he considered what to do with it.<p>His thoughts were broken by a servant announcing his older cousin, Tomonori. </p><p>Tsurayuki quickly rose to bow. "Cousin! Is my father not at home?"</p><p>"He is not, I am told, but I'm here to see you anyway."</p><p>Tsurayuki was pleased by the condescension -- despite their difference in ages, Tomonori was starting to treat him as a friend instead of just a young relative. One who, to be sure, guided his junior in the ways of the world, but a friend. To come visit him in particular, instead of the reverse, was an honor indeed. He had a cushion and refreshments brought, and soon they were seated together, looking out at the garden.</p><p>"Cousin, had I known you were coming -- "</p><p>"Think nothing of it," Tonomori told him. "I brought that collection of Chisato's translations from Chinese we talked about the other day."</p><p>A double honor. Tsurayuki could barely contain his pleasure as he received the scroll -- it had been put about that Chisato's work had been at the emperor's request. "You should not have brought it yourself."</p><p>"I think you'll find the manner stylish, but the style a little rough."</p><p>"Is that so?" That meant witty like a portly uncle at a drinking party. Tsurayuki thought he kept his face still, but his voice must have alerted Tomonori.</p><p>"Not to worry -- you'll find a few that sing smoothly the way you and I prefer."</p><p>They spent the time chatting about whether polish or conception was more important in a poem, and the latest scandal, and the object-matching competition the empress was to hold next month, with her father's sponsorship, and whether it would include a poetry contest as well. Soon enough it was time for Tsurayuki to change for his night duty at the palace, and then to leave. He returned home late, too late to deal with his morning mystery. </p><p>And the next day, when he looked among his papers, both poems were gone.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>#</p>
</div>Komachi walks down a long corridor, silent as a cloud lit by the autumn moon. One advantage of dreams is that they let a woman go to her lover instead of waiting for him to visit. When the pathway is open, that is. She pauses at a junction -- which direction? She cannot remember this building, not in life nor from another dream.<p>She glances at her robe, worn inside out as a charm to see her beloved. It’s never certain, for all her old nurse swore by it, but the sleeve flutters, moved by a breeze she cannot feel. She smiles, and follows its direction to the right. Two more turnings, and she reaches a sleeping chamber with its door cracked. </p><p>Softly she slides it open, just wide enough to enter without rustling against the frame, then closes it all the way behind her. Across the room, a person lies in the luxury of solitude. </p><p>"Hello?" A male voice. His voice. </p><p>Her own voice catches in her throat. To have come all this way, and yet be unable to speak. Is this how the gods mock her? She tries again, but again can only swallow.</p><p>He sits up. "Who's there?" </p><p>She comes forward and kneels a pace from his bedside. Her voice may have been silenced, yet she is not without words. Silently she takes a poem from her sleeve, the one written earlier that day, and gives it to him. Silently he takes it, and in the shadows he reads it to himself, then again aloud:</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>     I dozed, and saw him,<br/>
the person for whom I long,<br/>
    and ever since then<br/>
I have begun relying<br/>
upon those things we call dreams. </p>
</blockquote>He looks up at her, expression unreadable. The angles of his face catch the faint light, and her heart catches. Has she traveled this far for nothing?<p>He clears his throat and recites:</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>     It seems that dew falls<br/>
on the path of dreams as well:<br/>
    all through the night<br/>
as I traveled back and forth,<br/>
my sleeves got soaked -- and are not dry. </p>
</blockquote>He spreads his arm wide as he speaks, as if offering to let her check the sleeve and the truth of his words.<p>Even in dreams, he reasons like a Chinese scholar -- it makes him sound so young, though it is all the style these days. And of course, men must always sound their solicitude, claiming to weep for their beloved and pretend it is dew. But then, they do so because it works, this seduction of words, even when the poem is weak. The seduction of knowing he wants her as well.</p><p>She accepts his real invitation, and falls into his arms. </p><p>His touch burns her even more than his beauty. It may be a mercy that the night ends so quickly, before she becomes a cinder in his flames, ashes in his hands. She still regrets its passing. </p><p>They help each other dress in the faint glow through the shutters. As he searches the bedclothes for her sash, she reaches for her paper beside his pillow and on the back quickly writes:</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>     Autumn nights are long<br/>
only by repute, I see:<br/>
    we say that we'll meet,<br/>
but there is no time at all<br/>
before dawn has come, alas.  </p>
</blockquote>She places it where he will find it after she has left, just before he turns back, sash in hand. He fastens her robe closed. He opens his mouth to speak, but she silences him with a finger on his lips -- someone moves in the next room, who would hear them through the thin walls. He nods, and instead kisses her --<p>-- and she woke to the sounds of morning. Komachi lay still for a moment, listening: beds rustling, a birdsong, from behind a screen someone's lover belatedly and hastily dressing. Yukiko's, Komachi thought -- she'd said last night he'd promised to come. </p><p>Someone, at least, could rely upon more than just dreams.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>#</p>
</div>The great minister's son could no longer put off taking up his post in the south, and Tsurayuki was in charge of accompanying him to his ship at Naniwa. Beastly time of winter for traveling, but who could say no to a minister's request? Not one in need of the minister's favor.<p>At least in a harbor town he should be able to find something to do, while waiting for the weather to clear for sailing. Something -- or someone -- amusing. </p><p>All was bundled up for the carts, and the horses nearly ready. While waiting for the young master to receive his mother's tearful farewell and his father's advice, there was time enough for a last note to Tomonori:</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>     And so for a while<br/>
it seems that I must become<br/>
    a fisherman now,<br/>
reaping the gem-like seaweed<br/>
that grows in Naniwa Bay. </p>
</blockquote>He had just started a postscript when a steward came with a packing question. No, that trunk belonged with the other supplies. This was the one that stayed with the young master. And then a dispute gusted up between drovers that needed settling, and so on.<p>By the time he returned to his note, it was gone, replaced by another from his mysterious correspondent. He read it eagerly -- her poems obsessed him so much, he'd started to dream of her:</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>     But doesn’t he know<br/>
he can’t see me through the seaweed<br/>
    of my sorrow’s shores<br/>
this fisherman who comes here<br/>
ceaselessly on weary legs? </p>
</blockquote>Ha -- a clever play upon his. Especially with those words with double readings. He could learn something from this. Only on his third time through did he notice another double meaning, more troubling: did she have "sorrows" from not being able to meet, or did she cause "sorrows" because she forbade their meeting? Drat the woman -- cleverness like that only worked if a man could tell whether he was being encouraged or brushed off.<p>A call from the courtyard -- the horses were ready, and so was the young master. Tsurayuki tucked the paper into his robe, to answer later. </p><p>Though later never came during the journey -- the bustle, the rain turning to sleet, the inexorably muddy roads. He carried it with him through it all, paper getting as soaked as his skin, and as wrinkled as his cloak. He had no time to even think of what to write until he started back for the capital, in weather only somewhat better than his departure -- winds cold, but at least dry. Knowing he had carried off a difficult assignment cheered him, as did that first sight of the city. As he approached his father's house, he was almost ready to reply, or would be once he warmed up. </p><p>Among the messages waiting for him was another from her:</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>     So indeed it is:<br/>
that which changes and fades,<br/>
    its color unseen,<br/>
is the flower in the heart<br/>
of a man inside the world. </p>
</blockquote>How typical: you get taken away by the needs of the world, and a woman complains that your feelings have changed. Time enough to answer that later.<p>Only -- wait, that verb ending -- had she written "its color unseen" or "its color seen"? Demons take this woman and her way with ambiguities -- it was like arguing with a dream, the sort where palace corridors keep shifting, leading him further from a lady's chamber. "Unseen" fit the way they had still not actually met -- and was more comfortable to contemplate, as it did not accuse him of appearing the same while changing his feelings. And yet ...</p><p>Bah. He shook his head. He <i>must</i> find out who this woman was. She kept challenging him -- challenging his poetry.</p><p>He called for his writing kit and a change of clothing. Replying at once, while still tired, he couldn't come up with double-meanings to match hers. Though there was that color of feelings to play off of:</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>     Ever since that day<br/>
I dyed my colorless heart<br/>
    with you,<br/>
it has not been possible<br/>
to think it could ever fade. </p>
</blockquote>He set the poem aside for robes more suitable for a return to court, and then for reporting to the minister -- and accepting his gratitude. When Tsurayuki finally came home, elated but not too drunk, his poem was gone.<div class="center">
  <p>#</p>
</div>Komachi sighed. It was that restless time when winter was ending but spring had not yet started. Oh, the calendar said it was a new year, but the flowers and trees disagreed, as did the weather. The knowledge that the days were growing longer made even a short afternoon feel endless.<p>Though maybe her nerves were merely worn thin by Yukiko's weeping in the corner of the chamber -- last night her lover had once again not come. Some of the other attendants were trying to comfort her. One had even muttered, clearly enough for Komachi to hear, about so-called friends who didn't help those in trouble. Komachi had pretended not to hear as she sat reviewing the household accounts. The princess herself was gone, helping an older sister prepare for her upcoming marriage, with only her old nurse in attendance. Going with her, or being sent on some other official duty, would have helped Komachi's feeling of confinement. Her sense of reality. Not to mention would have taken her away from snide comments. </p><p>Komachi knew about not being able to meet someone. And right now, she did not want the reminder. </p><p>Careful inquiries had failed to find her dream lover -- it was as if no such courtier existed in the world she lived in. And yet she was unable to give up on him. Maybe she'd been too cautious, as she tried to avoid showing interest in any one man and so be linked to him in rumor. Maybe he lived in some other court -- with the governor of Kyushu perhaps, or across the seas in Korea or China. Elsewhere in the world.</p><p>Rather than face the world, Komachi dozed -- sitting with eyes closed over her scroll of expenses, imagining sending her dream lover a poem. One that somehow conveyed how much she needed to see him. Something with fire for a chilly day and a desperate heart:</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>     When we cannot meet<br/>
because there is no moonlight,<br/>
    I wake up -- blaze up<br/>
with longing -- my breast pounding --<br/>
sparks fly -- my troubled heart chars. </p>
</blockquote>In her fantasy, she writes this on ash-gray paper, more expensive than she could afford herself, then ties it to a scorched pine branch. She hands this to a messenger, as easily as if she were the mistress of a household. And since this is her fantasy, she imagines too that the messenger returns with a reply, more reliably than any real lover:<blockquote>
  <p>     Days and months have passed<br/>
without touching my white bow<br/>
    to lift, set, draw, shoot:<br/>
I get up -- lie down again --<br/>
unable to sleep at night. </p>
</blockquote>It was just like a man to turn her passion into something more directly sexual, though here wrapped in double-meanings -- even in her dreams, his poetry kept getting better. If he were to be believed, he longed for their meetings as much as she.<p>If you can ever believe a man. </p><p>The sounds of people hurrying woke her with a start, and she realized her pretty daydream had instead become a real dream, a sleeping dream. The princess had returned, breathless with excitement over her glimpse into the world of adulthood, and curious about the marriage jokes made by the older women. Komachi knew she ought to join the others, as they giggled their way through explanations. Or at the very least greet her mistress.</p><p>For a few moments more, however, she thought about the poem, and the dream that brought it. Were the words his, then? Was he even real? </p><p>Though sometimes she wondered how real she was.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>#</p>
</div>Tomonori visited in a break between showers. The rain was unseasonable -- a late storm of winter, or perhaps a preview of the summer rains. It had thrown everyone's plans awry, though Tsurayuki was glad of the break from his new duties, which had kept him busy following his promotion at the start of the year. And gladder still to see his cousin -- and the collections of poetry he brought.<p>Tomonori handed him the first one. "This is that other text of stories about Narihira's poems."</p><p>"Ah!" Tsurayuki had heard there was more than one version circulating, and the one he had was clearly incomplete. </p><p>"But," and Tomonori held up the other scroll, "I think you'll find this one of more interest."</p><p>Tsurayuki doubted it, but it paid to be polite. "Is that so?" he said, even as he untied the first.</p><p>"It contains your secret." Tomonori chuckled. To Tsurayuki's raised eyebrows, he went on, "I didn't catch on until I read Narihira's tales. It's an interesting experiment, this fictional affair of yours. The poems from your supposed lover, though, were unlike any woman alive today that I know of -- not even the Empress's woman, Ise, writes like this -- and a bit too convincing to have written them yourself."</p><p>Fictional what? Tsurayuki had spent enough time at court to not give himself away, and managed a bland smile instead. What by all the eight million gods was his cousin on about?</p><p>"Ah, I've put you out of sorts by guessing too soon." Tomonori set the scroll down between them. "Taking Komachi’s poems and replying to them as if she were your real lover. It was quite a convincing story, especially with sending me your 'copies' at the pace of a real affair."</p><p>Komachi? As in, what was her name, Ono no Komachi -- the poetess from his grandfather's time? Tsurayuki picked up the scroll but made no move to open it. "Yes, indeed, I -- I, forgive me." </p><p>"Nothing to forgive. I quite enjoyed it. I hope you take the affair all the way to its conclusion."</p><p>"I -- shall have to see."</p><p>Tomonori nodded. "But, you know -- you miscopied a couple poems," Tomonori said, nodding at the scroll. </p><p>"Say rather, emended," Tsurayuki improvised. That was always a convenient excuse. </p><p>"Ah, my apologies. Emended." Another chuckle.</p><p>"You are in a good mood today," Tsurayuki said, setting the scroll aside. It was time to lead the conversation out of boggy ground. "Especially in this weather."</p><p>"Ah, but I have heard a little something on the wind about my old friend Chisato."</p><p>"Indeed?"</p><p>The two talked for a while about the latest gossip, until Tomonori had to leave for another engagement -- an indoor one, which was not rained out. </p><p>As they said their farewells, Tsurayuki risked one last question. "So what happened to Ono no Komachi?"</p><p>"Eh? Oh, she died some years ago. You would have been a small child then, I think. Mother knew her, at a distance, when she served in the palace. Why?"</p><p>"Nothing -- I just never knew. Good luck this evening."</p><p>In the privacy of his own chamber, Tsurayuki finally opened her scroll. It was as his cousin had said -- here amid all the others were the very poems that had been spirited into and out of his father's house. The ones he had responded to -- and dreamed about. </p><p>Had someone been making a fool of him, copying and sending him these poems as her own? The thought twisted in his gut like a sword-blade. No, that couldn't be. The poems he received had been written with fire -- they must have been written by their author. He was sure of that. Just look at the handwriting in the collection: carefully copied. Not spontaneous.</p><p>Which meant ... he knew not what. Some miracle, perhaps. Or some spirit's joke. </p><p>Was it worse that she was dead than if she had been an exercise in fiction? Tsurayuki rather thought it might be. </p><p>His manservant coughed, reminded him that soon it would be time to leave for the palace. More time had passed, lost in thought, than Tsurayuki had realized. He nodded, but instead of preparing to depart, got out ink and brush and wrote:</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>     Our meeting is now<br/>
as distant as those far clouds<br/>
    that mutter thunder.<br/>
I keep just hearing of you,<br/>
which only prolongs my love ... </p>
</blockquote>He looked at it. Alongside one of Komachi's, the wordplay was just as complex, but the sentiment was pale. He should study the rest of her poems, learn what he could about writing passion convincingly.<p>Or he could let it go. As she herself had reminded him many times, all things must pass. Even love. </p><p>Instead of leaving it out, he folded his poem in half and tucked it safely into his robes.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>#</p>
</div>The summer rains were lasting long this year. Komachi sat on one end of the veranda, gazing out across the courtyard, at the far wall dimmed gray by the rainfall. At the other end, some attendants whispered among themselves, while inside others played the seashell-matching game with the princess. Never had that seemed so unappealing a pastime. At least the rains brought a measure of coolness.<p>How long had it been since she had seen her dream lover? Not since before the first flowers had bloomed and then scattered. Had he forgotten her? </p><p>Could she forget him?</p><p>She did not sigh. That would only invite questions from the gossips, or gossip for the questioners -- Yukiko beside her, for one, even as that woman drafted a letter to her latest lover. Questions of who she sighed for, and what he had done to sigh over. The vanity of it all.</p><p>Beyond the courtyard wall, though the veil of rain she could see only a ghost of the pine's shape, like a dream of a tree, waiting. The phrase caught at her. She took a stray sheet of Yukiko's paper and an extra brush to write it down, and the poem that lay beyond it. But instead, what came out was:</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>     This flower's beauty<br/>
has faded away it seems<br/>
    to no avail<br/>
have I spent my time staring<br/>
into space at the long rains. </p>
</blockquote>She set brush aside and steadied her hands in her lap. She would not cry, any more than she would sigh. Instead, Komachi looked up, out at the gray rain, and thought about the futility of dreams in a world of dreams. She needed to, somehow, give them up -- to make her own way in reality.<p>When she looked down again, her poem was still there. Komachi got up and joined the matching game.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Translations of poems by Ki no Tsurayuki and Ono no Komachi are my own. Those by Komachi, along with the rest of her surviving corpus, were previously published in <i><a href="https://larryhammer.dreamwidth.org/715889.html">These Things Called Dreams</a></i>.</p><p>The poem-stories about Narihira are <i>Tales of Ise</i>. Komachi's thread takes place around 850, while Tsurayuki's in the mid- or late-880s.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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